


Official Cruelty

by kjack89, Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Brutality, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: When a member of Les Amis de l'ABC, an antifa and anti-police organization, is assaulted, they're forced to work together with the detectives of Manhattan's Special Victims Unit to bring the perpetrators to justice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been neglecting E/R for quite some time now, but everytime I go to sit down and write, Barisi comes out. So I figured the best way to try to fix that was to write a crossover fic. My goal is to spend equal time with both fandoms in this fic, but we'll see how that ends up playing out. Also, my outline predicts this will be 6 chapters — again, we'll see.
> 
> Obviously, as this is a crossover, some knowledge of both fandoms is required to understand everything. As always, I try to make AUs accessible, but I'm a bit more limited when it's a crossover. If you see any points that need clarification/expansion, please let me know!
> 
> Much thanks to AHumanFemale and tobeconspicuous for being my test audience on this.
> 
> To be updated as frequently as possible, but it may take me a week or two between updates on this one, especially with work picking up.
> 
> Title is from the Brick.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!!

“Good morning, this is Megan McElroy and you're listening to WLMS, New York’s news radio. Our top story this hour is the ongoing manhunt for the leader of the radical anti-fascist group Les Amis de l’ABC following the violence against police officers that erupted during last Friday’s otherwise peaceful protest. NYPD says the violence was incited by Les Amis’ leader, known only by the pseudonym Enjolras, who has been accused — though not convicted — of a number of crimes in the past, including inciting a riot, disturbing the peace, and attacking a police officer. Protest leaders disavowed the violence in a press conference Monday morning—”

Enjolras snorted. “Yeah, I'm sure they did,” he muttered to no one in particular as he leaned against the doorway of an abandoned storefront, hood pulled over his blond curls, one earbud in his ear, the other dangling in front of his bright red hoodie.

The storefront provided enough cover that Enjolras probably didn't need to be as careful as he was being, scanning the street with practiced nonchalance and every muscle tensed so that he could run if need be, but since it was just down the street from NYPD’s 27th precinct, he wasn't going to take any chances.

Combeferre, his right hand man, had, of course, tried to stop him from going at all. “Let Joly or Bossuet handle it,” he had argued, suggesting two other members of Les Amis. “Is this really worth risking getting arrested over?”

The worst part was, Enjolras didn't have a good answer for him. So he had given the only answer he could: “Grantaire would do the same thing for me.”

He had been able to see the argument Combeferre was intending on making form on his lips: that Grantaire was a drunk, that Grantaire was barely even a member of their organization, that if Grantaire hadn't been crashing at Bahorel’s when the group was founded, he likely would never have even heard of Les Amis, let alone joined. He also got to see the exact moment Combeferre had decided the argument wasn't worth it.

“Probably because the DA isn't considering adding domestic terrorism charges against Grantaire,” Combeferre had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just remember that there's not a judge in this state who would release you on your own recognizance this time, and we’re short on funds to be able to pay your bail.”

Enjolras had just rolled his eyes in response. “Don't worry about it,” he said dismissively. “With my record, I'd probably be remanded to jail without bail anyway.”

“That's not exactly comforting!” Combeferre had called after him.

And, well, he wasn't wrong.

Which was why Enjolras was skulking in the shadows of an abandoned storefront, waiting for Grantaire to be released from the precinct he'd been held at over the weekend.

In any case, Enjolras figured he owed Grantaire the courtesy of meeting up with him after his release, since it was thanks to Grantaire that Enjolras hadn't been arrested.

Enjolras had been cornered by two NYPD officers in full riot gear when Grantaire had darted in front of him. “Long live the Republic,” he had shouted before slamming into one of the officers, buying Enjolras enough time to slip away.

And for his efforts, Grantaire had been held as long as the cops were constitutionally able to justify it before his arraignment. Marius Pontmercy, the group’s de facto legal counsel, had texted Enjolras as soon as the arraignment was over. _RoR_ , the text had said, lawyer shorthand for “released on his own recognizance”. _Grantaire’s lack of record paid off._

Enjolras somehow doubted Grantaire saw it that way.

He straightened when he saw the familiar figure slumping down the street toward him, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets and hood tugged low over his face. “R,” Enjolras called, as loudly as he dared, and Grantaire’s eyes snapped up to his before he quickly looked away.

But not quickly enough.

Not quickly enough for Enjolras to miss the black eye and split lip that certainly hadn't been there before Grantaire was taken into custody.

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras breathed, crossing over to Grantaire, who flinched away, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said roughly. “It's fine. Don't worry about it.”

“Don't worry about it?” Enjolras repeated, incredulous. “Grantaire—”

He touched Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire practically yanked his shoulder away from Enjolras’s hand, his hood falling back in the process. “ _Don't_ touch me,” Grantaire hissed through clenched teeth, but Enjolras just stared in growing horror as the extent of Grantaire's injuries were further revealed.

In addition to the black eye and split lip, the entire side of Grantaire’s face was swollen, as if — Enjolras swallowed, hard, having some familiarity with the injury himself — as if someone had smashed his face into a wall. And just visible underneath his hoodie were bruises on Grantaire’s neck that looked an awful lot like he had been strangled.

“What did they do to you?” Enjolras repeated, gentler this time.

Grantaire sucked in a breath before exhaling in a sigh. “You really wanna know?” he asked, something bitter and broken in his tone, and Enjolras just nodded. “Well, let’s see. First they locked me in a room by myself for hours. Wouldn't let me out to use the bathroom, wouldn't let me call a lawyer, nothing. Then, after they almost broke my fingers fingerprinting me—” He held up his hand and Enjolras winced at the sight of his bruised and swollen fingers. “—and after they took my mugshot so that they wouldn't have any picture evidence of what was to come, I’m sure, they took me to a different room. One without any windows, and I'm sure without any kind of cameras. And they—”

His voice broke and Enjolras had the sudden desire to tell him that he had changed his mind, that he didn't want to hear this. But it didn't matter. Grantaire was staring straight ahead, his gaze distant, and pained. “They told me that anyone who attacks a cop is a faggot bitch,” he continued dully, and Enjolras bit his lip to keep from swearing. “And that faggot bitches get what they deserved. They told me that I should be grateful they didn't kill me and that no one would hear me scream, and then they—” He broke off, his voice shaking, determinedly not looking at Enjolras. “And then they did what they wanted to me.”

“They—” Enjolras broke off, his stomach twisting violently as he realized what Grantaire meant. “Oh, God. Grantaire…” He had never been well-suited for comfort, and especially now he found himself completely at a loss to what to say. His fingers twitched as he longed to either reach out and hug Grantaire, or else slam his fist into the wall, in lieu of there being a cop nearby. “They're — they're not gonna get away with this. I swear to God, Grantaire, I’ll—”

“What?” Grantaire asked, laughing shakily, though there was no amusement to the sound. “What are you gonna do?”

Enjolras’s expression darkened. “I'll kill every single one of them.”

Grantaire’s eyes flickered up to his and away again. “I'm not worth that, Apollo,” he said, his voice low, and Enjolras shook his head.

“Then we’ll report them,” he said firmly. “We’ll get them fired, and worse. We’ll expose them. We’ll—”

“ _We_ won't do anything,” Grantaire said, sounding tired, and defeated. “We’re known members of an explicitly anti-police organization, or has that slipped your mind?”

Enjolras frowned. “No, of course not—” he started, but Grantaire cut him off.

“Who are we going to report them to?” he asked, the challenge clear in his tone. “Who in the hell would believe anything I say?”

Enjolras just stared at him, again at a loss for words. Grantaire shook his head and slowly backed away, looking down at the ground. “No one will believe me,” he said softly. “And I'm not worth it. So just — just let it go. I'll be fine.” His next words were so quiet that Enjolras could barely hear him. “I always am.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started, his voice pained, but Grantaire just shook his head, already walking away. Enjolras was torn between the desire to run after him and the much deeper and more visceral desire to storm the 27th precinct and take down every single cop in the building.

But he didn't have that kind of firepower on him, and he figured Grantaire needed to be alone, at least for a little while.

Which left him with a third option, one he loathed on principle: trusting the system to do what it was supposed to until Les Amis could do what they were able to.

He pulled out his cellphone and called Combeferre. “What's wrong?” Combeferre asked, as soon as he picked up.

Enjolras exhaled sharply. “I don't have time to explain,” he said. “Listen, do you remember the unarmed Black college student who was murdered by cops a couple years back?”

“Terrence Reynolds?” Combeferre asked, and Enjolras could hear the frown in his voice. “Why—”

“I need to know the name of the prosecutor who took those cops down.”

Combeferre hesitated. “Enjolras—”

“The name, Combeferre,” Enjolras interrupted, not giving him a chance to make whatever protest he was planning.

“ADA Rafael Barba,” Combeferre said. “But if you're intending on finding him, I'd avoid his office at 1 Hogan Place. That place will have way too many security cameras for even you to avoid.”

Enjolras just shook his head stubbornly. “I'll figure something out,” he said. “Thanks, Ferre.”

Combeferre hesitated before asking, “Is Grantaire all right?”

“No,” Enjolras said, shortly. “And it's not my place to explain.”

“Then be extra careful,” Combeferre told him. “See you when you get back.”

Enjolras hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket before pulling his hood a little more tightly over his curls and starting in the direction of 1 Hogan Place.

* * *

 

Rafael Barba sighed heavily and closed the case file he was nominally supposed to be reading to prep for arraignment tomorrow. He had a headache brought on as much by general stress as lack of dinner and he sighed again before glancing up at the clock and debating over whether it was too late to go to Forlini’s for a quick bite before heading home.

Not that he didn't have food at home, because he did, but Forlini’s also meant scotch and frankly, Barba needed a drink even more than he needed food.

Decision made, Barba stood and shrugged his suit jacket back on, buttoning it with nimble fingers as he debated texting Olivia or someone else from the Special Victims Unit to join him.

He decided against texting Olivia. Their last case had been long, tensions had run high, and Barba figured he probably hadn’t quite been forgiven yet.

Luckily, he had someone else that he could text, even if it meant sitting through the oft-repeated lecture of how much better it was to just eat at home, and he took his time typing out the perfect snarky request for company.

Of course, not even 100 feet from the doorway of 1 Hogan Place, he quite quickly came to regret that choice when a tall figure seemed to melt out of the shadows to block his path. “Barba?” a voice asked from underneath a hood, and Barba glanced up from his phone, his shoulders tensing, remembering far too well what happened the last time someone had stopped him like this.

“Can I help you?” Barba asked before adding pointedly, “And if this is an attempt to threaten me, you should know that others have tried this before and the last guy to try was frankly a lot more intimidating than you. And is also serving 5 years for it.”

“Threaten?” the voice asked, sounding almost surprised. “No, that’s—” A hand reached out to grab Barba’s arm before tugging him out of the glow of the street light. “I'm not here to threaten you. I need your help.”

Barba frowned and slipped his phone inside his pocket, having sent the text he'd been in the middle of composing when he'd been stopped. “I'm not normally in the business of helping complete strangers,” he said carefully. “What's your name?”

The man hesitated. “That's not important.”

“I beg to differ,” Barba said. “If you want my help, I need to know who you are. I'll also need some other details, but let's at least start with your name.”

Another moment of hesitation, and then the man reached up to pull his hood off, revealing blond hair that glinted almost silver in the dim light. “My name is—”

“Enjolras,” Barba completed, raising his eyebrows in surprise, recognizing the face that had been broadcast all over the news since Friday. “Domestic terrorism and inciting civil unrest isn't normally my area of expertise, so if you were hoping to turn yourself in in exchange for a deal, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you.”

There was probably protocol for dealing with a wanted fugitive with at least four warrants out for his arrest, and judging by the scowl on Enjolras’s face, purposefully antagonizing him was not it. “I'm not turning myself in for anything,” he spat. “Fucking pigs need to get rid of corrupt, power-abusing cops, and besides, they started the violence on Friday.”

Barba cocked an eyebrow. “They started it,” he repeated coolly. “I admit I was expecting a slightly less juvenile defense.”

“That's _not—_ ” Enjolras started hotly before breaking off, his brow furrowing. “Are you the ADA who got the cops who murdered Terrence Reynolds?”

Barba blinked, surprised by the question. “I impaneled the Grand Jury that indicted the three cops who shot Terrence Reynolds, yes,” he said cautiously. “Of course, the case has yet to actually go to trial while the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association has been doing its usual pre-trial logjam motions. Why?”

Whatever defiance was in Enjolras’s expression was replaced by something like worry, and for a moment, he actually looked as young as the news claimed he was. “It’s — a friend of mine,” he blurted. “I think he was raped.”

Barba winced. As many years as he had been doing this job, it still didn't get any easier to hear. “I'm sorry—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“I think he was raped by a cop.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal and undying gratitude goes to AHumanFemale for her help with this chapter. Without her, this thing might never have gotten done.
> 
> Warning for [SVU canon-typical] descriptions of sexual assault in this chapter.

Enjolras couldn’t quite make out Barba’s expression in the dim light, but the older man had gone very still. “Which precinct?” he asked, and Enjolras blinked, taken aback by the question.

“The 27th.”

Barba huffed a sharp sigh and drew a hand over his face. “Of course it’s the 27th,” he muttered darkly.

Enjolras watched him warily, not sure how to read his reaction. “My friend doesn’t think that anyone will believe him,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “Because of who we are — what we do.”

“For what it’s worth, I do,” Barba said quietly. “But it’s not enough for me to believe him.” He hesitated. “Can you call your friend? Ask him to meet us? I need to hear what happened directly from him.”

“He won’t come,” Enjolras told him, for the first time feeling something like guilt pool in his stomach. “He, uh, he didn’t want to tell anyone. He said he would rather just forget that it happened.” Barba was silent and Enjolras hesitated before blurting, “But I _can’t_ forget about it, not when this happened to him — not when it happens all the time! And as much as I wanted to storm the 27th precinct myself and fucking firebomb the place—” Barba flinched, whether from the idea or the dangerous edge to Enjolras’s voice that said he was entirely serious, “—for him, I want to do this the _right_ way.” Enjolras paused before adding in a low voice, “He deserves justice, but if I have to, I’ll settle for vengeance.”

Barba nodded slowly. “ _Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo_ ,” he said quietly. “If I cannot move Heaven—”

“—Then I will raise Hell,” Enjolras finished, equally quiet.

For a moment, Barba almost looked impressed. “You know your Aeneid.” Then he smirked. “But of course, judging by that Greenwich accent, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. How many semesters did you complete at Yale before you decided to drop out?”

“I got kicked out,” Enjolras said, glowering at him. “And is now really the time to compare Ivy League pedigrees, Counselor?”

Barba’s smirk faded. “No,” he sighed, checking his watch. “Christ, I need a drink.”

Surprisingly, Enjolras brightened at that. “Are you buying?”

“Why?” Barba asked warily.

“I may have figured out a way to get Grantaire to join us.”

* * *

 

“Sidecar, huh?” the dark-haired man that Barba assumed was Grantaire said as he slid onto the barstool next to Enjolras. “Good choice.” He picked up the drink in question — that Barba had ostensibly purchased for Enjolras — and drained it in a single gulp. “When Enj texted me that he met a sugar daddy who was buying him drinks, I assumed he was joking, but apparently, he was telling the truth. Though I’ll admit, you’re more his type than mine, but if you’re buying...”

He leered at Barba, who was frankly impressed that he was even attempting to flirt with the mottled bruises covering half his face and one eye swollen almost completely shut. Enjolras shot Barba a look that was apologetic bordering on amusement, and Barba ignored him, extending a hand to Grantaire. “Rafael,” he said in greeting. “What can I get you to drink? You don’t strike me as a cognac man.”

Grantaire gave him a measured look. “Rob Roy.”

“Dry?” Barba asked.

Grantaire smirked. “Perfect.”

Barba’s expression didn’t even flicker as he gestured at the bartender. “Perfect Rob Roy, straight up, another Sidecar and a Glenfiddich neat,” he said.

“Another scotch man, I see,” Grantaire said with what he clearly thought was a winning smile.

Barba returned the much younger man’s smile with a smirk of his own. “What can I say, I like my whisky like I like my men.”

Grantaire propped his chin on his hand. “And how’s that?”

Barba picked up his scotch and took a sip. “Well aged.”

Grantaire’s smile slipped as Enjolras let out a snort into his drink, and he glanced between Enjolras and Barba, suspicion stark in his expression. “What’s going on?” he asked, all traces of levity disappearing from his voice.

Enjolras winced. “Look,” he started, but he didn’t even get another word out before Grantaire glared at him.

“What did you do?” he asked, glancing at Barba before asking sharply, “What did you _say_?"

“Enjolras didn’t tell me anything,” Barba interrupted, holding up a placating hand. “Let me introduce myself fully: my name is Rafael Barba, and I’m—”

“A Manhattan ADA, I know,” Grantaire said, still wary, and Barba, surprised that Grantaire knew who he was, blinked. “What do you want?”

Barba hesitated. “Most of my cases involve the special victims unit.” Grantaire just stared at him blankly and Barba again hesitated before adding, “They involve sex crimes.”

Grantaire flinched away so violently that Barba winced, and Grantaire stared at Enjolras, betrayal stark in his features. “You _told_ him?” he whispered.

Barba would've preferred if Grantaire had yelled; judging by the look on Enjolras’s face at the hurt clear in Grantaire’s voice, he would've too. “I had to,” Enjolras said, and Barba thought it was to his credit that his tone, though gentle, was backed with conviction. “Someone has to do something, and ADA Barba can.”

Clearing his throat, Barba interjected, “I can, but not on my own. If it's alright with you, I'd really like to bring in an expert to help.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Someone you trust?”

“Intimately,” Barba said. “With my own life.” Enjolras didn't look convinced until Barba added, “He’s my husband.”

“You're not wearing a ring,” Grantaire pointed out, his voice still soft and a little shaky.

Barba shrugged. “I'm not much one for rings,” he said. “But he and I have been together for a long time, and there’s no one I trust more.”

Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged glances, and Barba got the sense they were having a silent conversation. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he had to hide a smile, recognizing far too well that he and his husband did the exact same thing. “Fine,” Grantaire said finally, his eyes dropping to the floor. “But I'm gonna need another drink before I say anything.”

“I can't begrudge you that,” Barba said, gesturing to the bartender before standing and jerking his head toward the back of the room. Enjolras and Grantaire followed, and they slid into the last booth, Enjolras sitting with his back to the wall so that he had a full view of the bar. “So,” Barba prompted after a long moment.

Grantaire took a swig of scotch. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Barba said. “Though before we get started, you should know, I’m not your lawyer. We don't enjoy attorney-client privilege. So if there's anything not pertinent to describing what happened to you that involves anything illegal, I don't particularly want to hear about it.” He paused. “At least, not yet.”

“When do you want to hear about it?” Grantaire asked, a little sullen.

Barba kept his tone as even as he could, trying to keep in mind what Grantaire was going through. “When it becomes pertinent.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might make some attempt at a witty comeback to that, but he seemed to change his mind, settling for taking another gulp of scotch. “Fine,” he said, a little hoarsely. “It started on Friday. I, uh, I was picked up at the rally for—” He glanced at Enjolras. “—assaulting a police officer.”

“Allegedly,” Barba interjected, his fingers itching to take notes, though he knew that would come later, on the third, fourth, fifth recitations of the horror story Grantaire was about to tell. His only job now was to listen —and apparently interject legal advice.

The corners of Grantaire’s lips twitched towards a smile. “You sure you’re not a defense attorney?” Barba just looked at him evenly and Grantaire sighed, dropping his gaze into his lap and fiddling with the ragged cuffs of his hoodie sleeves. “Right. For _allegedly_ attacking a police officer. And at first it was, you know, standard procedure — it’s not like this was my first time getting arrested.”

Enjolras let out a huff of something that might’ve been a laugh and Grantaire did manage a smile at that as they exchanged knowing glances, but his smile was short lived. “I told them I wasn’t gonna say anything without a lawyer so they left me in an interrogation room for…I dunno, a few hours at least. I wasn’t allowed to make any phone calls, or use the bathroom or anything. Then they, uh, they took me to be booked and then…”

He trailed off and Barba took a sip of his own scotch before gently prodding, “And then?”

“Then they took me to a different room,” Grantaire said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, his eyes squarely fixed in his lap as if he didn’t want to see the look on Barba’s face — or Enjolras’s. “There were two of them. I don’t know their names. I shoulda — I mean, I know I shoulda asked or remembered or—”

“It’s ok,” Barba said, cutting him off before he could work himself into a panic, and Enjolras reached out as if to touch Grantaire’s arm reassuringly, though he seemed to think better of it, his hand falling awkwardly to his side. “We can get all that worked out later. Right now what I need to know is what they did next.”

Grantaire jerked his head in a sharp nod and took a deep breath. “They left me in there at least overnight,” he said. “I dunno how long it was but I fell asleep at some point. When I woke up, the same two officers were back and I told them I had the right to a phone call and an attorney and one of them said that I was gonna take what they’d give me and be grateful. And then they started asking me questions, questions about Les Amis, about Enjolras—”

Enjolras swore under his breath and Grantaire laughed weakly without looking over at him. “Don’t worry, Apollo, I didn’t tell them anything.”

“I wish you had,” Enjolras said in a low voice. “Maybe then—”

“The officers who did this would’ve done what they did no matter what Grantaire told them,” Barba said firmly.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, a little faintly. “They didn’t even really seem to care what my answers were, anyway. And when they got bored with the interrogation, they said they clearly needed to persuade me.”

Barba glanced at his injuries — the ones that were visible at least — and winced. “That was when they beat you?”

Grantaire nodded, once. “Yeah. And then…”

This time, Barba didn’t push, letting Grantaire work up to saying exactly what had happened to him, realizing with a sudden jolt in the pit of his stomach that this was probably the first time Grantaire was going to say the words out loud and that Barba was going to be the first to hear them and wishing more than ever that someone else was here in his place.

“One of them forced me to give him head,” Grantaire said finally. “I think the other one wanted to — you know — but he couldn’t get it up. So he just smacked me around some more.” He shrugged jerkily. “And then they left. And a few hours later Marius finally got there—”

“Marius Pontmercy,” Enjolras told Barba, his voice pained, and he swallowed before adding, “Our lawyer.” He glanced at Grantaire. “R—”

Grantaire shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Or I will be. And in the meantime, there’s scotch, right?”

Barba saw the look on Enjolras’s face and decided that the most tactful thing for him to do at the moment was give them a moment alone. “Speaking of, it looks like you need a refill,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Only when he got to the bar did Barba finally let out the breath he felt like he had been holding the entire time, and his hand was shaking when he placed it flat against the smooth wood. Once upon a time, Barba had prided himself on his objectivity, on his ability to compartmentalize the victims’ experiences and pain as separate from the cases he dealt with, but that time was long past, and right now, he felt physical pain in his chest for the young man sitting huddled in the back booth, the bruises on his face the least of his injuries.

The door to the bar opened and both Enjolras and Grantaire looked over at the tall man who strolled in. As one, they stood, Grantaire instantly shifting so that he was slightly in front of Enjolras. “Go,” Grantaire ordered, eyes not leaving the tall man, who had paused, clearly sensing something was wrong. “Go, back door, I’ll hold him off!”

The man’s hand dropped to the holster on his hip and both Enjolras and Grantaire reached for whatever was tucked in the waistbands of their pants. “NYPD,” the man half-shouted, drawing his sidearm. “Hands where I can see them!”

Barba sighed and picked up the two refilled glasses of scotch before standing and moving between Enjolras and Grantaire and the NYPD officer, lifting the glasses in a placating gesture. “Gentlemen, please stop reaching for whatever firearms I’m going to pretend you aren’t illegally carrying,” he said with another sigh. “I’d really hate for my husband to have to shoot you.”

Enjolras and Grantaire gave him twin looks of surprise before they exchanged glances and finally dropped their hands to their sides. Only then did the officer return his gun to its holster, though his expression was dark as he strode forward. “Your husband’s a cop?” Enjolras asked, biting off the word.

“Enjolras, Grantaire, allow me to introduce Det. Dominick Carisi, Jr. of Manhattan Special Victims Unit,” Barba said wryly, passing one of the glasses to Grantaire. Enjolras glared at him and Barba shrugged. “I told you my husband was an expert. You were the one who didn’t ask how.”

“Call me Sonny,” Carisi said, his Staten Island accent thick with disapproval as he pressed a quick kiss to Barba’s cheek. “Raf, when you texted me to meet you for a drink, I didn't think NYPD’s most wanted would also be invited.”

“We’re not here for that,” Enjolras snapped, still cagey in the presence of who he clearly viewed as the enemy. “We’re here—”

“We’re here because of me,” Grantaire interrupted and for the first time Carisi seemed to notice the state of the man’s face and flinched sympathetically. “Think I’m pretty? All that’s courtesy of your brothers in blue.” He paused. “Well, most of it anyway. The rest is just as fate designed.”

Carisi’s face hardened. “Which cops?”

“27th precinct.”

Carisi sighed, as unsurprised by the news as Barba had been. “I’m, uh. I’m sorry.”

“He was assaulted,” Barba added, meeting Carisi’s eyes and knowing that further explanation was unnecessary. “By the same cops who rearranged the rest of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Carisi repeated and Enjolras seemed to relax slightly. At least, until Carisi’s eyes flickered to Grantaire and in an instant, Enjolras stiffened again, moving to shift himself in front of Grantaire. The motion wasn’t lost on Barba, who had witnessed his husband make the same move dozens of times when he thought Barba was even remotely threatened.

It wasn’t lost on Carisi either, his expression softening. “Listen, I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, and after everything that’s happened, I can’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me, or any other cop. But if you want the people who did this to answer for it, you gotta tell me what happened.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Is this the trust speech, then?”

“Personally, I don’t care if you trust him,” Barba said mildly, gesturing for them to return to their booth in the corner as if that might help diffuse the situation. “What I care about is that the legal i’s and t’s are dotted and crossed, because that’s the only way any one of them will ever be brought to justice, and I’m fairly certain that’s what you want.”

He said it with a confidence that he lacked, because Barba couldn’t quite get a read on what Grantaire wanted. Enjolras and Grantaire looked at each other, Enjolras’s defiance extinguishing when Grantaire’s shoulders sagged and he slumped towards the booth, draining his scotch in a single gulp. “Fine,” he said, his breath fogging his now-empty glass. “Let’s just get this over with.”

It was worse the second time around, Barba thought as he watched Grantaire recount his attack with an emptiness in his voice that made his stomach twinge. Carisi listened, rapt, jotting the occasional note down, every inch the professional, the only sign that he was as affected as Barba the nervous bounce of his leg under the table.

Enjolras listened just as attentively, his eyes never once leaving Grantaire’s face, and this time, when Grantaire’s voice broke halfway through, he reached out, tentatively, and set a hand on Grantaire’s arm.

The gesture seemed to return Grantaire’s resolve, and he finished his story and looked pointedly at Barba’s untouched scotch. “You gonna drink that or are you letting it age longer?”

Barba refrained from rolling his eyes and slid the glass across the table. Carisi leaned forward, his forehead wrinkling. “So why’d you go to Barba?” he asked first. “Why not go to the police?”

“I didn’t go to anyone,” Grantaire said. “That was all Apollo here.”

Enjolras met Carisi’s gaze coolly. “Because Grantaire and I both knew that the cops wouldn’t believe a word he said,” he said, challenge clear in his tone, but Carisi didn’t rise to it. “And because I thought Mr. Barba might be able to do something about it. Since he took down those cops who shot Terrence Reynolds.”

This was the moment Barba had been dreading since his realization halfway through Grantaire’s original telling, and he glanced over at Carisi, whose expression softened in understanding. “And ordinarily, I would,” Barba started carefully. “But in this case — I can’t.”

“Why not?” Enjolras demanded, while Grantaire looked stricken.

“I’m an outcry witness, the first person that Grantaire told about what happened to him,” Barba said. “If this were to go to trial, there’s a very likely possibility that I would be called to the stand to testify, which means I can’t prosecute.”

Grantaire seemed to fold inward on himself at that, draining the second glass of scotch even as Enjolras seemed to swell next to him, half-rising from his seat, his eyes blazing. “Then who else in your office would be willing to?” he snapped.

This time, the silent looks Barba and Carisi exchanged said everything they needed to.

Grantaire stood, abruptly, his face flushed even under the mess of bruises. “See, Enj?” he said hollowly, his words bitter and tired. “I told you no one would believe me. I shoulda just kept my mouth shut.”

He shoved past Enjolras and made a beeline for the door, and Enjolras watched him leave before whirling around, fury in every line of his young face. “Thanks for nothing,” he spat, rising as well, but Carisi caught his arm. “Get the _fuck_ off me!”

But Carisi didn’t let go. “I believe him,” he told Enjolras, his mouth pressed into a severe line. “And we are gonna investigate. I promise you that. Please tell Grantaire that.”

Only then did he release Enjolras’s arm, and the disgust and fury mingled in Enjolras’s expression dimmed into suspicion. “You’re not gonna arrest me?”

Carisi shook his head. “Your friend needs you,” he said simply, before adding with an uncharacteristic edge to his voice, “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Enjolras nodded, once, before turning to follow Grantaire. Barba and Carisi watched him go in silence, and only when he had disappeared did both men finally allow themselves to exhale the deep, tired sigh that released from their chests.

“You let him go,” Barba said mildly, a touch surprised.

Carisi gave him a look. “His friend was just brutally assaulted by two NYPD officers. I think him dragging him in after that would’ve been a bad call. I mean, Christ, the optics alone, you know?

Ordinarily, Barba would’ve laughed at that, but that night, no laugh would come. “So what do we do now?”

Carisi shook his head and stood. “Well first I’m having the drink you invited me here for in the first place,” he said, a little wryly. “And then we’re gonna call Liv and open an official SVU investigation.”

Barba sighed, already feeling the migraine building in his temples. “In that case, better make mine a double.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AHumanFemale for beta-ing!

SVU Lieutenant Olivia Benson stood as soon as the captain of the 27th precinct made his way into his office. “I hope you weren’t waiting long,” he said as a greeting, and Olivia forced a smile on her face as she held out her hand for him to shake.

“Not at all,” she said evenly. “Nice to finally meet you, Capt. Javert.”

Javert looked at her flatly. Olivia felt deeply uneasy looking at the man, for reasons she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Everything about him was in accordance with every NYPD regulation, right down to the length of his sideburns. He had what appeared to be a permanent frown that creased his forehead and lent an air of foreboding about him.

He settled into his seat and steepled his fingers together. “So,” he said, pronouncing the word like an indictment, “What can the 27th Precinct do for SVU?”

Olivia hadn’t expected much beating around the bush; her knowledge of Javert was limited — he had been installed at the 27th Precinct following the fallout from the Terrence Reynolds shooting, an attempt by 1PP to show that they were doing something to correct the perception that rogue officers were running unchecked — but she knew he was by the book and to the point. “Certain allegations have been made by someone who was in the 27th Precinct’s custody,” she said, sitting down as well, though he hadn’t invited her to.

“Any veracity to them?” he asked.

She shrugged and attempted a smile. “That’s what I’m trying to get to the bottom of,” she said. “And I was hoping you’d be willing to help me with that.”

The look Javert gave her indicated that he wasn’t inclined towards helpfulness. “If the person making the accusation was in custody, that means the individual in question has been arrested for a crime,” he said. “I’m not inclined to take a criminal at his word, especially when said criminal is leveling accusations at his or her arresting officers.”

Olivia blinked. “Anyone detained still has the presumption of innocence,” she said, taken aback by his tone. “The individual involved may not even have committed a crime. And Captain, I should let you know — the accusation they've made is serious, and it would be in the 27th Precinct’s best interest to cooperate with me.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked, his tone turning brusque.

“Video footage,” Olivia said, equally short. “The victim said he was detained for several hours before being booked and was then moved to a secondary location where he was assaulted by two of your detectives. Security footage from the precinct would confirm or refute his movements in the precinct and which detectives may have been involved.”

Javert stood. “Ms. Benson—”

“Lieutenant,” Olivia interrupted, standing as well.

Javert’s nostrils flared. “ _Lieutenant_ Benson,” he ground out. “I was installed at the 27th Precinct to root out those officers who had decided there was something more important to them than their oath, and I'd like to think I've done that. I can assure you that no officer under my command would do what you're accusing them of, and it will take much more than the word of a criminal to convince me otherwise. You're welcome to return with a warrant, but if that's all you wanted…”

He trailed off expectantly and Olivia shook her head. “I will be back,” she promised.

“Then I look forward to seeing you again,” he said with a horrible smile that sent shivers down her spine.

She left without shaking his hand, instead pulling out her phone to send a text to Barba and Carisi. _Javert refuses to cooperate_ , she sent. _We need a plan B, and fast._

* * *

 

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Enjolras snarled, staring down at his phone, and all eyes in the backroom of the café Musain instantly turned to him. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his best friends and closest lieutenants, were watching warily, and even Grantaire, who was taking hits from a bong in the back of the room with Joly and Bossuet, looked up.

“Who do I gotta beat up?” Bahorel asked, almost mildly. “Nazis? Please tell me it's Nazis.”

“Or the KKK,” Feuilly added in what he clearly thought was a helpful way.

Jehan propped his chin on his hand. “The 1%?” he suggested.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “As much as all of the above deserve a beating, I have a feeling this is something different.” He looked at Enjolras carefully. “Enjolras?”

Enjolras just shook his head and slid the phone across the table to Combeferre, who frowned down at the text and sighed. “Well _that_ complicates things,” he muttered.

Courfeyrac snatched the phone and read the text out loud. “This is Det. Carisi—” He broke off to scowl at Enjolras. “I still can't believe you gave a fucking cop your number.”

“It's a burner phone,” Enjolras said dismissively. “I'll just toss it when, you know, all this is over.”

He shot a glance at Grantaire, who studiously ignored him. Courfeyrac followed his gaze and his expression softened for just a moment before he continued, “This is Det. Carisi. 27th precinct isn't giving footage. Need alternate plan. Stay tuned.”

Silence fell following the text being read aloud, silence punctuated first by Grantaire, who snorted and raised his beer in a mock toast. “To New York’s finest,” he said. “I’d tell ‘em to never change, but I don’t have to, because they’re never gonna.”

Ordinarily, Enjolras would have used this opportunity to cut Grantaire off, to remind him that his cynicism had no place here, but he was strangely quiet, avoiding looking at Grantaire, whose expression twisted. Courfeyrac glanced between Enjolras and Grantaire before he sighed heavily. “Ok, well, fuck this,” he said bluntly. “Feuilly, how are your hacking skills?”

“I should be insulted you even need to ask,” Feuilly said with a smirk. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hack into the 27th Precinct’s security footage,” Enjolras answered for Courfeyrac, something determined creeping back into his voice. “Find the footage that they don’t want to share.”

Combeferre glanced at him, his expression carefully neutral. “And then what do we do with the footage?” he asked.

Enjolras hesitated. Ordinarily, this would be when he suggested releasing it, sending it to LMZ or whatever outlet would blast it out, but looking at Grantaire, who was staring determinedly away from him, he didn’t feel like that was the right move. “Then we give it to the NYPD,” he said instead, looking back at Combeferre. “That will _have_ to be enough for the DA’s office to bring charges.”

Combeferre shook his head. “Enjolras—” he started, but he was cut off by Feuilly’s triumphant whoop.

“I'm in,” he said smugly. “Their firewall was _pathetic_.” He glanced up at Enjolras. “Hey, uh, you want I should delete some arrest records while I'm in here?”

“Nah, they're crossmatched to central records, so it wouldn't do any good,” Bossuet interjected. “I may or may not have tried, but, well, you know. Just my luck.”

The collected group laughed at that. Feuilly clicked decisively. “I've pulled the footage from every camera in the precinct for that whole weekend. Whaddya want me to do with it?”

“Send it to me,” Enjolras said decisively, opening his laptop. “I'll send it on to the detective — no reason to accidentally expose one of you guys on top of everything else.”

“Yes, Apollo, heaven forbid,” Grantaire drawled from the back of the room, but Enjolras ignored him until he added, “Not on my account, anyway.”

Enjolras looked up sharply. “Grantaire—” he started, but was interrupted by Bossuet accidentally knocking the bong over, and in the general riot of laughter, teasing, and everything else that followed, the thread of conversation was lost. Not that Enjolras had forgotten about it — not that he would.

But the conversation shifted from there, returning to its usual planning, so much so that Enjolras managed to put the entire situation with Grantaire mostly from his mind, until—

A knock sounded on the door to the room and Les Amis glanced around, rapidly trying to figure out which of their number was not there. The knock sounded again, followed by a man shouting gruffly, “It’s Sonny Carisi. I need to speak to Enjolras.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Courfeyrac swore, instantly reaching into his pocket for his lighter. “We’re burning it all.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and caught Courfeyrac’s arm. “We can’t just burn the entire building,” he hissed before glaring at Enjolras. “Well, you better go see what your police friend wants before he breaks the door down.”

Enjolras glared right back at him but moved swiftly to the door, opening it just a crack. “What?” he snapped. “Is it now routine NYPD procedure to break up a gathering on private property?”

“If it’s a gathering of known and wanted criminals, I’d say so,” Carisi returned, and Enjolras blinked, surprised by how angry the other man sounded. “Now would you let me in?”

Enjolras glanced over his shoulder to verify that most of the laptops, maps and other planning documents were stashed away. He turned back to Carisi. “Are you here to arrest me or anyone else?”

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to stop you from getting arrested,” Carisi said bluntly and Enjolras hesitated a moment longer before opening the door.

“Fine, but I’m only letting you in because this location’s now burned and we’ll never be back here,” he said as a warning, glancing out into the main room of the café.

Carisi didn’t look amused. “If you’re looking for that kid acting as your lookout, I took a selfie with him and threatened to post it on Twitter praising him for his cooperation with NYPD and he scampered.” He raised an eyebrow at the scandalized looks all nine of Les Amis threw at him. “Tactic I picked up from a colleague.”

Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest and made a mental note to find Gavroche later and apologize. “How’d you find us?”

In response, Carisi pulled a flashdrive out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. “What, you think you’re the only ones who know how to hack?” he asked, clearly pissed. “TARU traced the IP off of the upload — one of you geniuses forgot to use a VPN.”

Courfeyrac glared at Enjolras, who shrugged, feeling his ears burning red. “There’s a reason I don’t do the technical stuff!”

“What the hell were you thinking, sending that to me?” Carisi demanded. “I mean, seriously. Do you have any idea what kind of damage you could’ve caused with that?”

“It’s proof—” Enjolras started hotly, but Carisi shook his head and cut him off.

“It’s illegally obtained evidence.” Enjolras felt his heart sink at the words as Carisi continued, “And it’s inadmissible in court.”

“Did you watch it?” Grantaire asked quietly, and both Enjolras and Carisi turned to face him.

Carisi sighed heavily. “That’s not the point,” he said, his tone instantly turning gentler, warmer, friendlier, and Enjolras was reminded for the first time that this was what he did for a living, comforting victims — and was reminded for not the first time that day that Grantaire was a victim. “Whether I watched it or not doesn’t change anything. I still can’t use it. Nor can the DA’s office.”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Might not change the investigation,” he said. “Might change whether you believe me.”

“I believed you from the start,” Carisi said honestly, and when Grantaire just looked skeptical, he shrugged and added, “Hand to God. Why do you think I’m trying to help you?”

“If you were trying to help, you’d do something with the footage!” Enjolras said hotly, unable to stay silent. “Did you watch it?”

“Did you?” Carisi challenged, his eyes steely. “Because I did. And even if it were admissible — which it _isn’t_ — it’s not enough. It verifies Grantaire’s timeline, how long he was in the first interrogation room for hours, how he was moved to a second room with no camera, and how he didn’t come out until the next day and was covered in bruises. But the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association would have a field day making up wild theory after wild theory for why Grantaire had to be detained and how he injured himself in the process.”

“And the worst part is, a jury would buy any one of those theories as reasonable doubt,” a grim voice said from behind Carisi and a tenth man entered the room, carrying a briefcase. “Marius Pontmercy,” he said, holding his hand out for Carisi to shake. “I assume you aren’t questioning any of my clients without an attorney present?”

Carisi arched an eyebrow at him. “Actually, I passed the Bar, so technically there always was an attorney present.”

Marius couldn’t quite hide his smile, even as he tried to amend sternly, “Without _their_ attorney present.”

Carisi held his hands up innocently. “I haven’t asked any questions,” he said. “I’m not here for that.”

“No, you’re just here to tell us how you can’t do anything,” Enjolras snapped, frustrated. “Well, I’m sorry, but if NYPD isn’t gonna do anything, we’re gonna have to.”

“Enjolras—” Marius started warningly, but Carisi cut him off.

“We _are_ doing something,” he said evenly, staring Enjolras down without flinching at the fury radiating from every line of his body. “You have to give us time. And you have to trust me.” He glanced around at the sea of suspicion-laden faces and managed a small smile. “I realize this isn’t exactly an audience full of people willing to trust the police, but I’m not asking you to trust NYPD. I’m asking you to trust _me_.”

After a long moment, Enjolras nodded, stiffly, and Carisi straightened. “Good. Then keep me posted on what you’re planning. And for the time being, try to make sure what you’re planning is legal.”

With that he left, and Marius closed the door after him. “I assume we’ll be moving to the Corinthe?” he asked, taking a seat. Before letting anyone actually answer, he sighed and gave Enjolras a look. “By the way, I hate to say it, but the detective is right. With the charges still pending against you all, you need to keep your activities legal for the time being.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Fine, we’ll keep it legal,” he scoffed, “But we still have to do _something_.”

“What about a demonstration?” Courfeyrac asked, playing with his lighter with a dark look on his face. “Right outside the 27th precinct.”

“A rally,” Combeferre corrected him, giving him a sideways glance. “Strictly legal, proper permits and all. But something to bring the focus back on police brutality, something to show we’re not letting it go unanswered.”

Enjolras nodded slowly before asking over the murmurs of agreement, “Grantaire, what do you think?”

Grantaire looked up, startled. “Me, dear Apollo?” he asked, with a terribly false laugh. “I was unaware my opinion had ever counted for anything.”

“It always counts,” Enjolras said, and when Grantaire just gave him a dubious look, he amended, “Well, it matters now. Things are different, after all.”

Grantaire’s expression twisted into something closer to a grimace. “Well, then,” he said, standing, “in that case, I’m just glad that I can finally be useful to the Cause.”

He left without another word and Enjolras stared after him, something sharp and painful curling in his gut. Combeferre rested a hand on his shoulder. “Let him go,” he advised quietly. “Give him some time. Besides, we’ve got planning to do.”

Enjolras nodded and turned back to the table, but all the planning in the world couldn’t get the image of Grantaire’s face out of his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, sorry that this chapter took so long!! Like a fool, I bit off _way_ more than I could chew for the month of December, but things should be back on track now.
> 
> Thanks as always to AHF for the beta!

“Sexist, racist, anti-gay, NYPD go away! Sexist, racist, anti-gay, NYPD go away! Sexist, racist, anti-gay—”

A uniformed officer emerged from the front door of the 27th precinct looking distinctly unamused at the crowd outside chanting at him, and Enjolras allowed himself a smirk, pushing his way to the front of the crowd as the officer made his way down to them. “Alright,” the officer shouted over the din, raising both his hands, “this is unlawful assembly and I’m gonna have to ask you to disperse.”

Enjolras’s lip curled, but before he could say anything, Marius appeared at his side, giving him a look before stepping forward with a smile belied by the sign he held which proclaimed: FROM FERGUSON TO NYC, STOP POLICE BRUTALITY. “Is there a problem, Officer?” he asked smoothly. “Because we have a permit for this rally.”

He held out a piece of paper that the officer seized, reading over with scrutiny. “Fine,” he grunted finally, shoving the paper back at Marius. “But if you impede traffic, you will be arrested.”

With that he turned on heel and retreated into the safety of the precinct, and Enjolras grinned, allowing himself a moment of silent gloating before joining in the renewed chants: “The police are violent! We will not be silent!”

He didn’t get very far back into the crowd before someone grabbed his arm, and he turned, eyes widening with surprise when he saw who it was. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you,” Carisi said, dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket over a black Henley, “I’m trying to help. And seeing as how the word on the street is that Les Amis are planning something big tonight…” He trailed off and shrugged. “Figured I should be here. Just in case.”

“You’ll be glad to know, we’re not planning anything illegal,” Enjolras informed him

“For once,” Carisi added, a little sourly, and Enjolras just smirked at him.

He lead Carisi over to the stack of remaining signs and handed one to him. Carisi looked at the sign — and the cartoon pig on it proclaiming FUCK THE PIGS — and gave Enjolras a look. Enjolras just shrugged and grinned. “What can I say, Grantaire had a bit of fun making that one.”

Carisi rolled his eyes but nonetheless took the sign and Enjolras’s smirk widened. “Speaking of Grantaire,” Carisi said, glancing around, “is he here? I assumed he’d be here for this.”

Enjolras’s smirk disappeared, the familiar edge of pain he felt everytime he thought of Grantaire over the past few days punching through his triumphant mood. “No, uh, he — he didn’t really want anything to do with this.” Carisi shot him a look and he shrugged again, irritation quickly replacing whatever lingering feeling curled in his chest that he refused to give name to. “He’s probably drowning himself in whiskey at some dive bar,” he said instead, harsh even to his own ears. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What’s important is what we’re doing.”

For a moment, Carisi looked like he might argue, but instead he nodded slowly and followed Enjolras into the crowd of chanting protesters.

* * *

 

It took Barba a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the bar, but even so, he instantly recognized the figure hunched over the bar, a half-dozen empty glasses arranged in a frankly depressing pattern in front of him. Barba made his way over and nodded at the bartender. “Two more of whatever he’s having,” he said before dropping onto a barstool and reaching up to loosen his tie.

Grantaire turned his head to glance up at him, surprise quickly replaced by something else that twisted his expression. “Buying me a drink?” he asked, his voice rough. “What would your husband think?”

Barba shrugged and took a sip from the glass the bartender set down in front of him. “Christ Jesus,” he rasped, setting the glass down again. “What the hell are you drinking, rubbing alcohol?”

Grantaire snorted and drained his own glass in a single gulp. “Well whiskey. I don’t know what brand, but it’s 3 bucks a pour.”

“Your liver must hate you,” Barba said, throwing his own drink back as well and grimacing before ordering them both another glass of whiskey, this one costing significantly more than $3 a pour. “And considering my husband was the one who told me where to find you, I imagine he wouldn’t be too concerned.”

That comment seemed to catch Grantaire off-guard, and he gaped at Barba for a long moment before he seemed to recover. “He knew where to find me?” he asked.

Barba shrugged. “Well, one of your friends at the rally did, and he texted me.” He took a sip of his drink, watching Grantaire closely as he continued, “Speaking of the rally, why aren’t you there?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire picked up his drink but didn’t take a sip, just swirling the amber liquid in the glass and staring at it intensely. “I kinda just want to forget the whole thing ever happened.” He took a sip and sighed, setting his glass down on the bar, still not looking over at Barba. “I mean, bruises fade, you know? You almost can’t tell what they did to me anymore.”

“But you still know,” Barba said quietly.

Grantaire huffed a bitter laugh. “Only because Enjolras won’t let me forget,” he muttered, taking another gulp of whiskey. “All I want to do is put it behind me and continue my miserable existence much as it’s always been, but no, of course not. Instead, Enjolras has to throw a rally to commemorate my rape.”

“To protest against your rape,” Barba corrected, though he couldn’t help but wince a little at Grantaire’s choice of words. He took a sip of whiskey, letting the alcohol rest against his tongue for a long moment as he contemplated his next words. “As someone who has seen more than my fair share of these types of crimes, I know the emotional toll it can take on—” He almost used the word ‘victims’, but thought better of it, knowing that Grantaire wouldn’t appreciate being thought of that way. “—on those involved. And at the end of the day, what’s more important is that you do what’s right for you and for your recovery. Even if that means telling Enjolras where he can shove it.”

Grantaire just shook his head and sat back in his seat, his expression turning contemplative with an edge of something that Barba recognized all too well — longing. “You don’t get it.” Grantaire whispered. “Enjolras has never looked at me like that before, like my opinion mattered. Like  _ I _ mattered. And it’s all because of what happened to me. And I can’t just...give that up.”

His voice was small, wounded, and Barba took another long moment to try to figure out what to say in response to that. Comfort was not his forte, after all, and neither was being particularly forthcoming with details about his personal life. He wondered for a brief second why he had even bothered coming here when there was very little he could offer Grantaire that would even remotely help. But even if the circumstances were immeasurably different, Barba did understand what it was like, just a little, and he summoned forth what words he could manage to try to comfort Grantaire as best as he could. “Someone threatened to kill me,” he said finally, and Grantaire glanced up at him, eyes wide. “I mean, not recently — well, ok, technically yes, there are always threats, but this particular threat was not recent.” He shook his head. “And Sonny was the detective in charge of figuring out who was threatening me, charged with keeping me safe. And I…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I hated every minute of it.”

Grantaire managed a small smile. “Well, no shit,” he said. “You’re a control freak.”

Barba huffed a laugh. “It wasn’t just that,” he said. “I hated the way Sonny looked at me, the way he treated me. Because…” He trailed off and drained his glass of whiskey. “Because I wanted him to look at me like that for more than just because it was his job to care that my life was in danger. Because I wanted him to look at me like that because he loved me the way that I loved him.”

Grantaire blinked. “You weren’t together yet?”

“No,” Barba said shortly, signaling to the bartender for another drink. “No, it would be another couple some odd years before we got together.” He saw the look on Grantaire’s face and shrugged. “He’s Catholic and had some issues to work through. But that’s not the point. The point is, I will never fully understand what it’s like to be in your shoes, but I do know what it’s like to want someone to look at you as more than just a cause.” He half-smiled, thinking of his husband, his fiery, over-protective husband who was, at his core, a good man. “And I know what it’s like to be in love with someone who believes  _ so _ strongly, whose faith is so shatterproof.”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I’d call what Enjolras has faith,” he said. “Delusions, more like.”

But Barba didn’t take the bait. “You don’t think his certainty that things will change is grounded in part on faith?”

“I guess you have a point,” Grantaire admitted.

“Either way,” Barba continued, “you and I aren’t built that way. We’re realists — some might even call us cynics. Some who don’t value their lives might call us alcoholics.”

Grantaire laughed and leaned in to clink his glass against Barba’s. “Cheers to that,” he said.

“And it’s hard to reconcile the way Sonny and Enjolras view us with our own understanding of the world,” Barba said. “I know how it feels when you think that you don’t deserve the way he looks at you, that you don’t deserve his faith in you, but just know this — if he loves you, his faith in you should be guaranteed, and should go far beyond what happened to you.”

“That’s a big if,” Grantaire scoffed, but it felt more rote than anything, his own expression twisting into something like panic. “After all, Enjolras doesn’t — I mean, he couldn’t—”

“He’s literally leading a rally in your honor,” Barba pointed out. “How much more proof do you need?’

Grantaire just shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about proof,” he muttered, “but I’m gonna need a shit ton more whiskey.”

Barba snorted and shook his head. “Well,” he said, “that at least can be arranged.”

* * *

 

The crowd outside the 27th precinct had swelled considerably and showed no sign of dispersing anytime soon, which worried Carisi as much as anything else. It was hard to keep on eye on things in a crowd this side, and he was additionally on edge by the precinct choosing to call in reinforcements in riot gear, ready to quell the rally the moment it became more than just a peaceful protest.

To add to Carisi’s increasing nightmare, he had caught sight of a few individuals in the crowd that looked a little too out of place among the crowd of mostly college-aged students. Not that he had a leg to stand on in that regard, but he couldn’t shake the nagging concern that they might stand out like he did for much the same reason he did.

Plainclothes officers in the crowd was not a good sign.

“You should get outta here,” he shouted over the din of the crowd to Enjolras, who seemed to get more fired up with every person who arrived on the scene. “I think there’s gonna be trouble.”

“Like I’d leave my own protest,” Enjolras scoffed.

Without warning, one of the men Carisi had pegged as possible law enforcement chuckled a bottle at the nearest police officer, along with a shouted, “Fuck the police!”

That was all it took.

The rally turned into a mass of bodies as the police surged forward and the crowd fought back, and Carisi swore under his breath. It had to have been on purpose, planned all along — the 27th precinct had planted officer to turn things violent so they’d have an excuse to arrest the protesters.

He turned to tell Enjolras that, only to watch a plainclothes officer hit Enjolras with his sidearm. “Hey!” Carisi shouted, forgetting that he was undercover, forgetting that, frankly, Enjolras was wanted for assaulting a police officer and he’d probably be tempted to arrest him under different circumstances. He grabbed the cop’s arm as he moved to bring his gun down on Enjolras again, and the cop turned on him, elbowing him in the stomach, hard, winding him.

“You just assaulted a cop, asshole,” the officer said, tackling Carisi to the ground with more force than he expected, especially since he made no move to resist, knowing it would just do more harm than good. He winced as the officer ground his head against the pavement and dug his knee into Carisi’s back to keep him flattened against the ground.

Carisi twisted his neck to crane up at Enjolras, whose expression was a cold mask of fury. He recognized the look in his eye all too well, and shook his head minutely. “Go,” he told him, his voice hoarse, and when Enjolras’s eyes flickered to him, hesitation clear in his expression, he half-shouted, “Go! Get my lawyer!”

“Shut up,” the cop snarled, but Enjolras nodded, just once, and disappeared into the dispersing crowd.

For his part, Carisi continued to comply as the officer hauled him to his feet and marched him into the precinct. After all, he was on the job, which meant he’d be fine.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he was unceremoniously dumped in an interrogation room.

He’d be fine.

Carisi just wished he could believe it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week??? I'm as shocked as you.
> 
> Thanks as always to AHF!!

Enjolras was still trying to catch his breath when he pushed open the door to the bar, having at least power-walked most of the way there.

He hadn’t run, because running draws attention and attention was the last thing he needed, but he had walked as quickly as he could, Carisi’s last instruction ringing in his ears.

_“Get my lawyer!”_

There was a time when Enjolras would've balked at following the orders of any cop, no matter how friendly Det. Carisi may appear. But then what happened to Grantaire did, and no matter what Enjolras might think of the NYPD as a whole, he was slowly beginning to believe that Carisi genuinely wanted to help Grantaire.

Which meant Enjolras owed it to him to find Barba.

At least, that was the only person Enjolras assumed Carisi could mean, and even if Enjolras had no idea where to find Barba, he knew who would.

And luckily, Grantaire was nothing if not predictable. Musichetta’s Pub was the designated rendezvous spot for if the rally went to hell, and if Enjolras knew Grantaire, that’s exactly where he would be, three sheets to the wind in preparation for the rest of Les Amis to roll in.

What he hadn’t expected, as he paused in the doorway to catch his breath, was for Grantaire to be laughing with the very person Enjolras was trying to find. Barba was smirking, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. Despite his relatively disheveled appearance, only the empty glasses in front of him hinted to the fact that he had clearly been matching Grantaire drink for drink, which should have left a lesser man passed out on the floor.

Enjolras felt something like anxiety tighten in his chest. “Barba,” he called, weaving through the bar, and both Barba and Grantaire glanced up at him, the smirk fading from Barba’s lips as he took in Enjolras’s appearance.

“What happened?” Barba demanded, and Enjolras realized for the first time that he must have a bruise rapidly darkening against his skin from where the cop had hit him.

He had too much adrenaline coursing through his system for him to feel it, but based on the way Grantaire had paled, the way his fist clenched against the bar, Enjolras had a feeling it must look worse than it felt.

“The 27th Precinct,” Enjolras said grimly. “The rally went to hell, and New York’s finest didn’t need much provocation to break it up with as much force as possible.”

Barba winced sympathetically, and Enjolras took a quick breath before telling him, “Carisi got arrested.”

Barba’s entire body tensed, his expression shifting so rapidly that Enjolras could barely track the change. “What?” he asked, his voice quiet and sharp.

“There were plainclothes officers in the crowd,” Enjolras reported. “Carisi stopped one of them from…” He gestured vaguely at his head and Barba’s expression darkened. “And they cuffed him and took him in. He told me to find you.”

“Did they hurt him?”

Barba’s voice was still deathly quiet and calm, but sharp enough to cut. “I mean, he didn’t resist,” Enjolras hedged, shifting slightly as if he could get away from Barba’s eyes boring into him. “But they weren’t exactly gentle.”

Though Barba nodded, his expression didn’t change, and he pulled out his phone, dialing a number without looking. “Liv, it’s me,” he said, when whomever he was calling picked up. “They arrested Carisi.” He paused, a look of cold fury creeping into his expression. “I don’t give a fuck about _protocol_ ,” he practically spat, and for the first time Enjolras could hear the edge of panic to his tone. “I swear to God, Liv, if he walks out of there with so much as a papercut—”

He stood and covered the mouthpiece of his phone, glaring at both Enjolras and Grantaire. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything until you hear from me or someone else from SVU. Is that understood?”

Ordinarily, Enjolras would have chafed at the command, but given the look on Barba’s face, he decided it was in everyone’s best interest not to argue, and he nodded. Barba didn't wait for further confirmation, practically jogging toward the door, his phone pressed to his ear.

Grantaire stared after him, concern clear on his face, though he quickly forced his expression into something neutral when he saw Enjolras looking. “Typical,” Grantaire grumbled. “He didn't close his tab.” He shot Enjolras a hopeful look. “You still got Mommy and Daddy’s AmEx?”

“Please don't call my parents that,” Enjolras sighed, already digging in his pocket for his wallet. “But you're in luck.”

Grantaire gave him a critical look. “You're in luck, too,” he said. “Trust me, you're gonna want a drink for when the adrenaline wears off.” He gestured to the bartender, who promptly brought two drinks. Enjolras picked up the glass and sniffed the contents, blanching at the strong smell. “To New York’s finest,” Grantaire said, lifting his glass in a mocking toast.

Enjolras made a face and clinked his glass against Grantaire’s before draining it in one gulp, a move he instantly regretted, spluttering at the taste and burn down his throat. “Jesus,” he wheezed. “What are you drinking, gasoline?”

Grantaire laughed softly. “Barba wouldn't be pleased to hear you call his scotch of choice gasoline,” he said before gesturing to the bartender again, this time ordering a Jack and coke for Enjolras.

“I think Barba’s got other things on his mind,” Enjolras shot back, and Grantaire’s grin faded.

“Do you think Det. Carisi will be ok?” he asked quietly.

Enjolras took a sip of his drink and shrugged. “He's a cop,” he said bracingly. “They protect their own, don't they?”

“I doubt the 27th Precinct’ll see it that way,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras shot him a glance and took another sip. “Speaking of the 27th Precinct,” he started cautiously, “I was disappointed not to see you there today.”

Grantaire made a face. “As much as I'd love to return to the scene…” he said bitterly.

“I mean, I get that,” Enjolras said, but Grantaire shook his head.

“Do you?” he asked, more rhetorically than anything, draining his drink. He was quiet for a long moment and Enjolras didn't say anything, not wanting to press. Finally, Grantaire sighed and slumped in his seat. “I was talking with Barba, and I'm considering not pursuing charges.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What?” he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. “Grantaire, this is everything we’ve been working for—”

“'This is everything _you’ve_ been working for,” Grantaire corrected quietly. “I just want it all to be over, Enj.” He hesitated before adding, “And I need you to be ok with that if that's my choice.”

There were a million protests Enjolras wanted to make to that, a thousand different arguments dying on his tongue when he saw the stubborn set of Grantaire’s jaw, and he took a minute to figure out what he wanted to say to that. “It's personal,” he said finally. “It shouldn't be, and I know that, because the depravity committed by the police across this country on a daily basis is just as bad if not even more devastating on a systemic level—” Grantaire gave him a look and Enjolras broke off his rant before he could really begin. “But it's _you_ ,” he said instead. “It's not some nameless, faceless statistic, or even someone trending on twitter or Facebook — it's you. And I…” He trailed off again, feeling the familiar well of barely constrained fury rising in his chest. “I can't make it right, as much as I want to. I can't take back what they did to you. The only thing I can do is try to get you some kind of Justice.”

Grantaire hesitated, his fingers tapping nervously against the bar. “There's something else you can do,” he said, almost nervously.

“Anything,” Enjolras said instantly. “I’ll black your boots.”

His attempt at a joke worked, at least briefly, as Grantaire smiled for a fleeting moment. “That's my line,” he said before his smile fell and he took a deep breath. “You can — you can be there, for me. You can help me deal with this in my own way. And you can…”

He trailed off, and Enjolras asked quietly, “What?”

“You can tell me that I'm worth more to you than just what happened to me.”

Enjolras’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest, and he gaped at Grantaire, at the realization that that was how Grantaire had seen things, had interpreted—

Well, had interpreted everything, apparently.

And that was on Enjolras, and he knew that. He had...never been good at expressing his emotions, and he knew that, too, but for Grantaire to think, even for a moment—

“Grantaire,” he started, his voice cracking painfully, and he shook his head and grabbed Grantaire’s hand, finally ready to say what he should have from the start. “You're so much more than that,” he said fiercely. “And you always have been. This — all of this — this wasn't because of the Cause.” Grantaire gave him a look and he amended, “It wasn't _just_ about the Cause. What happened to you hasn't changed how I feel about you for better or for worse. It's just...made it clearer, I guess.”

“Be serious,” Grantaire said with a slow smile, and Enjolras smiled back at him.

“And that's normally my line.”

Grantaire hesitated, searching Enjolras’s face for a long moment before leaning his head against Enjolras’s shoulder, the move comfortable and familiar to both of them, even with the subtext running between them. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Enjolras squeezed his hand. “Be easy,” he whispered.

“Oh, so now you're stealing all my lines?” Grantaire teased lightly.

“Trying to,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “You're better at this than I am.”

Grantaire laughed as well. “Boy are we trouble if that's true,” he said, and Enjolras just snorted and shook his head before squeezing Grantaire’s hand once more.

* * *

 

It was impossible to know how much time had passed, since Carisi hadn’t worn his watch and his phone was tucked in his pocket, where his still-handcuffed hands couldn’t quite reach it, but if he had to guess, he’d say it had been a few hours.

His back ached from his hands being cuffed in the same position for however long they had been, he was hungry, and he had an itch on his nose that was going to drive him nuts.

He also had a very, very bad feeling about all of this.

This was exactly like what Grantaire had described, and his stomach coiled nervously at that thought.

The door to the interrogation room banged open and a uniformed officer stepped inside, avoiding eye contact with Carisi as he dragged him upright. “What’s going on?” Carisi asked, his voice hoarse. “I know my rights — I wanna talk to a lawyer.”

“You’ll get your chance to talk to a lawyer,” the officer muttered, leading him out of the interrogation room and down a hallway.

Every step sent a cold chill down Carisi’s spine.

So much so that he actually shivered when the officer deposited him in a different room, one with no one-way mirror looking out at the hallway. One with no camera in the corner of the room.

One exactly like the room Grantaire had described.

He turned to face the officer, to ask a question or demand answers, but the officer was gone, and Carisi sank slowly onto the hard metal chair and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

Rafael would be coming soon.

There was no way the 27th Precinct would stop a Manhattan ADA from seeing him, even if said ADA was his husband.

There was no way—

The door opened and Carisi sat up, watching warily as two detectives stepped into the room, glancing at their badges in hopes of memorizing their badge numbers.

Just in case.

“I ain’t saying nothing without my lawyer,” Carisi said instantly, and the older of the two detectives, who was balding and appeared to be missing a tooth, smirked at his companion.

“Did you hear that, Det. Lewis?”

The second detective smiled, and the sight chilled Carisi to the core. “I heard him, Det. Tholomyes,” he said, taking a step toward Carisi, his eyes dark. “Thankfully, we don’t want to ask him any questions, do we.”

Carisi licked his lips nervously, his eyes flickering between the two men. “Listen,” he said, his tone turning almost wheedling as he stared up at them, “there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Tholomyes laughed dryly. “I’ll say so,” he said. “Clearly it was a mistake for an NYPD detective to be at a rally led by cop killers.”

Carisi froze.

They knew he was a cop.

And they clearly didn’t care.

“Then again,” Lewis added, almost casually, prowling ever closer to Carisi, his horrible smile not fading, “this detective married a faggot who clearly has it out for cops, so maybe we shouldn’t be all that surprised.”

Carisi glared at him, self-preservation temporarily abandoned. “Don’t call him that,” he growled, low in his throat.

Both of them just laughed. “Look at him,” Lewis scoffed, “Sticking up for fags and cop killers. I knew SVU was a weak bunch, but this is really something else.”

Tholomyes examined him closely, a cold look on his face. “Did you really think that you could side with cop killers and not face the consequences?” he asked, seemingly rhetorically.

Carisi just shook his head slowly. “We’re all detectives here,” he said calmly, hoping that putting them on the same page might draw some sympathy. Or something. Anything, really, that might postpone what he had feared coming since he had been stuck in an interrogation room. “And you guys should know I’m not gonna say anything without my association rep—”

Lewis backhanded him before he even finished the sentence. “You don’t deserve an association rep,” Lewis spat, and Carisi shook his head slowly, reeling from the blow. “You don’t—”

Tholomyes caught Lewis’s arm as he moved to hit him again and gave him a warning look. “Hang on, William,” Tholomyes said slowly. “Let’s hear the detective out. Maybe there’s some kind of explanation that he can give us that will...make this all go away.”

Carisi straightened and tried not to look as relieved as he felt. “I’m on the job,” he said, his tone urgent. “There’s been a sexual assault claim involving Les— involving the cop killers, and I’ve been investigating.”

Lewis’s eyes seemed to bore straight into him, but Carisi met his gaze unflinchingly. It wasn’t even a lie, after all. “You’re on the job?” Lewis repeated, clearly skeptical. “What’s the color of the day?”

Carisi let out the breath he’d been holding for what felt like hours. “Yellow,” he said confidently.

The two detectives exchanged glances, and Carisi’s heart sank when Tholomyes smirked. “Color changed at midnight,” he said. “Looks like you’re not on the job now, _Detective_.”

This time, Carisi saw the blow coming before it hit.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.


	6. Chapter 6

Olivia heard the raised voices coming from Javert’s office, and she didn’t bother knocking, just opening the door and letting herself in. Just as she expected, Barba stood mere inches from Javert, seemingly unconcerned that the police captain had more than a few inches on him. “And I’m telling you, Counselor, the New York County DA’s office has no authority here,” Javert was saying, though Olivia felt that it was more bluster than anything.

Barba didn’t back down. “And I’m telling _you_ , Captain, that I don’t need your permission.”

“Gentlemen,” Olivia interrupted, though neither man looked over at her. “Is there a problem, Capt. Javert?”

Though she had directed her question at Javert, it was Barba who answered. “Javert won’t tell me where Carisi is,” he said shortly, glaring at Javert, every line of his body radiating tension.

“As I told your ADA here, we have no record of Det. Carisi being arrested,” Javert said firmly. “Meaning that I have no idea where your missing detective may be, but he’s certainly not here in my precinct.”

Barba’s lip curled. “Because I’m supposed to put my faith in your precinct’s fastidious record keeping,” he spat venomously. “My husband is here, Captain, and if I have to call every judge in this city until I find somebody whose authority you respect enough to grant me full access, I will.”

Olivia held up a hand in a placating gesture to both of them. “Capt. Javert, we have a reliable source that says that Det. Carisi was arrested during the rally outside the precinct earlier this evening.” She checked her watch and amended, “Yesterday evening, technically. He was there in an undercover capacity under my authority and may have been booked under a different name.”

“Be that as it may,” Javert started, giving Barba a nasty look, “as I’ve already told Mr. Barba, we have no record of Carisi’s arrest and no perps unaccounted for, and seeing as how he isn’t sitting in an interrogation room—”

“What about somewhere else?” Olivia pressed before Barba could say anything. “In a holding cell, or anywhere else in the precinct?”

Javert huffed a sigh, then paused. “I suppose…” he started, then shook his head. “But there’d be no reason for the arresting officer to put him there…”

Barba stiffened. “Where?” he demanded.

“There are some old holding cells in the back of the precinct,” Javert said reluctantly. “But they haven’t been used in years—”

Barba didn’t wait for him to finish. “Take me there,” he said.

Though Javert huffed a sigh, he nonetheless complied, brushing past Barba to lead them both out of his office and down the hall. Olivia glave Barba a sideways glance. “We’ll find him,” she said in an undertone, aiming for soothing, but Barba didn’t give any indication that he had heard her.

She had seen him like this only once before, when Carisi had almost shot by a suspect. Had Olivia not taken the suspect down, she would've expected Barba to storm the precinct and beat the perp to a pulp with his bare hands.

He was vibrating with the same barely-contained fury now, and Olivia couldn't quite find it in herself to blame him.

And when they did find Carisi, Olivia wasn’t going to concern herself too much with holding Barba back.

Especially since, as they approached the holding cells in the back of the building, Olivia could hear the dull thud of fists against flesh and, barely audible above the sound, a low, pained whimper.

Barba’s face went white, but before he could say or do anything, Javert had drawn his sidearm and shouldered the door to the holding cell open. “Freeze!” he shouted, and Olivia drew her gun as well, watching as two men with detective’s shields slowly backed away from Carisi, who was slumped in a metal chair, his head lolling forward, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek, from his obviously broken nose, and from the corner of his mouth.

“Sonny!” Barba breathed, darting forward to crouch down next to him, hesitating as if he wasn’t sure where to touch him without hurting him more.

Olivia reholstered her gun and pulled her cellphone out instead, calling dispatch. “This is Lieutenant Olivia Benson. We need a bus at the 27th precinct—”

The younger of the two detectives made as if to slip around Olivia, but she didn’t even hesitate, hipchecking him into wall and decking him in the face with her free hand. The detective spun against the wall and slumped to the floor, and Javert gave Olivia an appraising look before pulling out his handcuffs and cuffing the older of the two detectives. “Felix Tholomyes, William Lewis—” He kicked Lewis’ prone form lightly. “—you both are under arrest for assault of a police officer. You have the right to remain silent—” He broke off from Mirandizing them and grabbing Tholomyes’ arm. “Though I’d prefer if you explained to me _why_ you did this. Why you would risk the honor of this department, of your badges, and why especially you would force me to take the side of known criminals to stop you.”

Olivia didn’t wait to hear Tholomyes’s response, knowing that whatever excuse he could make wouldn’t change anything. Instead, she focused on Carisi and Barba. “Sonny,” she said, wincing at the sight of his injuries.

“Lieu,” Carisi managed, blinking at her as if trying to force himself to focus.

“It’s ok, Sonny,” Olivia said gently, swallowing around the lump in her throat as she watched Barba lightly stroke Sonny’s hair, his fingers trembling. “An ambulance is on its way. You’ll be ok.”

At least, she hoped.

Carisi shook his head minutely, inhaling sharply at the pain, and Barba’s hand stilled. Then Carisi closed his eyes and mumbled something so quietly that neither could hear him, given the startled look Barba threw her way. “What’s that, Carisi?” Olivia asked.

Blinking once, Carisi’s eyes found hers once more. “We’re supposed to be the good guys,” he managed, his whisper almost inaudible still. “If no one can trust the police, who can they trust?”

Olivia glanced over at the prone form of William Lewis, and the handcuffed, scowling Felix Tholomyes, and couldn’t help but think that Carisi had a point.

* * *

 

“This is Vicki Hughes in for Megan McElroy with WLMS, New York’s News Radio. Our top story of the hour: NYC Mayor and the New York County District Attorney announced today that Assistant District Attorney Rafael Barba has been appointed special prosecutor working with the Civilian Complaint Review Board to crack down on police brutality. The appointment comes after two NYPD detectives pleaded guilty to assaulting a fellow officer as well as an unidentified victim. Later this hour, I’ll be joining the New York City Sanitation Department for an in-depth look at Manhattan’s sewer system—”

Grantaire tugged the earbud out of his ear as he saw a familiar figure heading toward the coffee shop that had been his intended destination as well. “Counselor!” he called, and Barba stopped, glancing around warily until he saw Grantaire and relaxed, just slightly. “Wait up.”

“Grantaire,” Barba acknowledged when Grantaire reached him. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Grantaire said, taking in the dark circles that surrounded Barba’s eyes, as well as his tired and slumped posture. “How are you?”

Barba just sighed and ran a hand across his face. “Tired,” he admitted. “Sleeping in a hospital chair for a week straight will do that to you.”

Grantaire winced at the thought. “Det. Carisi get released yet?” he asked as they made their way up to the counter.

Barba nodded. “Yes, three days ago. It’ll be awhile before he’s healed enough to go back to work, even for desk duty, and I think he’s already going stir crazy.”

“He didn’t want to come today, get out of the house for a bit?” Grantaire asked.

“He was advised against it,” Barba said, something sharp in his tone indicating that he hadn’t been the one to suggest it. “Optics, or something.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Enjolras said they were going to kill him,” he said, accepting a cup of coffee from Barba, who stared at him. “Det. Carisi, I mean.” Barba’s expression tightened and Grantaire shrugged, looking away. “I mean, someone like me, you can rough me up a little and I’ll stay silent, you know? But there’s no way Det. Carisi wasn’t gonna say anything. Which means the only option they would’ve had…” A muscle worked in Barba’s jaw and he nodded jerkily. Grantaire took a deep breath and forced a smile, trying to steer the conversation back into neutral territory. “But hey, I just heard on the radio — special prosecutor. That must be exciting.”

“It’s a kewpie doll,” Barba said bitterly, his expression still dark, and he took a swig of coffee. Grantaire blinked at him and Barba caught sight of the confused look on his face and sighed. “A consolation prize. For not being able to prosecute the bastards.”

Grantaire nodded again. “Yeah, I heard about the plea deal,” he said.

Barba shot him a measured look. “I didn’t see you in court,” he said mildly.

“I made my statement,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “Didn’t really see the need to face them again. Not when it wasn’t gonna change anything for their sentence.” He raised an eyebrow at Barba. “Days like this, you must wish we still had the death penalty.”

To his surprise, Barba smiled grimly. “We don’t need the death penalty,” he said. “I had a conversation with the judge handling the sentencing — off the record, of course. They’ll be getting sent to general population at the prison.” He took a sip of coffee. “Two former cops in gen pop? They’ll be lucky if they last two months.”

Grantaire whistled under his breath. “That’s dark, Counselor,” he said.

Barba gave him a look. “What would you do if it was Enjolras?”

“I’d pull the trigger myself,” Grantaire said without hesitation.

He would.

And there wasn’t a court in the land that could stop him.

Barba looked like he knew exactly what Grantaire was thinking, and he managed a wan smile. “In any case,” he added, “If they did it to you, there’s a good chance they’ve done it to others they arrested. So I’m considering whatever happens to them justice on behalf of others who deserve it as well.” He paused and gave Grantaire a measured look. “Are you coming to the press conference?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, and when Barba looked mildly surprised, he shrugged and added, feeling uncomfortable, “Well, like you said — it’s about justice for those who didn’t have an NYPD detective and a Manhattan ADA on their side. I figure even I can make an appearance for that.”

Barba laughed lightly and rolled his eyes. “And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that your boyfriend will be there?”

Grantaire smirked. “I mean…”

Barba shook his head as they left the coffeeshop, heading toward the Supreme Court building, where Barba would be holding his press conference. Grantaire could already see Enjolras there, his red hoodie and blond curls standing out among the usual crowd of reporters, lawyers, and police officials in dull colors, and for the first time in longer than he could frankly remember, Grantaire didn’t feel an automatic coil of fear at seeing Enjolras so near to cops.

Probably because for the first time in longer than Grantaire cared to admit, Enjolras was in no danger of being arrested.

Not today, at least.

Barba clapped Grantaire wordlessly on the shoulder and crossed over to the prepared podium while Grantaire slunk to the back of Les Amis, content to lurk in the background like always.

But then Enjolras swiveled, locked eyes with him, and then looked pointedly at the open spot next to him. Grantaire huffed a sigh but nonetheless pushed through their friends to stand next to Enjolras, who spared him a slight smile before turning to watch Barba as he began the press conference.

“As you undoubtedly know,” Barba said, “I’ve been appointed to act as special prosecutor in conjunction with the Civilian Complaint Review Board. Though the most recent incidents of police misconduct are deeply troubling, they speak also to systemic abuses perpetrated by the department at large.”

He paused. “In light of the efforts by the group known as Les Amis to bring this brutality to the attention of the proper authorities, the DA’s office has decided to drop some — though not all — of the charges against the members of that group. In addition—”

Barba was cut off by Enjolras, who strolled forward with an almost cat-like swagger to cut in. “Thank you, ADA Barba,” he said smoothly, and Grantaire had to hide his snigger at the look on Barba’s face as Enjolras hijacked his press conference. “The fact of the matter is, it should never have taken one of NYPD’s own being attacked for them to finally decide to get off of their asses and do something about the police brutality running rampant throughout the city.” He paused, glancing back at Grantaire, his expression softening, just slightly. “But,” he continued, his fire tempered slightly but never diminished, not even on Grantaire’s account, “as someone who recently dealt with a person close to me getting attacked, I also get it. It makes it more real, and that forces action.”

Enjolras paused again, gripping the podium with both hands. “And while I wish that all of this could’ve happened without innocent lives being lost or ruined in the process, I am grateful to ADA Barba, and to Manhattan SVU and especially Det. Carisi for being the last of the good guys.” He glanced over at Barba, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. “And knowing ADA Barba as I do, I have sincere hopes that this entire situation doesn’t end up being a huge bureaucratic waste of time.”

As Enjolras took questions from the assembled reporters, Barba glanced at Grantaire, his expression resigned. “Sometimes I hate your boyfriend,” he muttered.

Grantaire grinned. “Yeah, he’s great, isn’t he?”

Barba rolled his eyes and stepped forward to attempt to reclaim his press conference, and Grantaire jerked his head toward the side of the crowd. Enjolras didn’t hesitate, joining him as they slipped away together. Once they were clear from the crowd, Grantaire let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “So what now?” he asked, more philosophically than anything.

Enjolras shrugged, his shoulder brushing against Grantaire’s as he did. “We keep fighting,” he said simply. “You know damn well NYPD isn’t gonna clean up their act just because Barba got appointed to a figurehead position, so our work’s not done.” He nudged Grantaire. “What about you?”

“I’m, uh, I’m seeing a therapist that Lt. Benson recommended,” Grantaire said. “I doubt it’ll help, but you know me, I’ll try anything once.”

Enjolras snorted and shook his head. “Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

“As always, I believe in only one thing,” Grantaire said with an easy grin.

“Your full glass?” Enjolras asked dryly.

Grantaire considered it for a moment. “Ok, two things,” he amended, and at Enjolras’s questioning look, Grantaire just grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Now c’mon,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”

“We?” Enjolras asked with a small smile, as he laced their fingers together.

“You heard me,” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

* * *

 

Barba arrived home to the smell of pastries baking and he raised his eyebrows at the sight of the kitchen, which appeared to have been temporarily turned into an Italian bakery. “Hi,” he said lightly, watching as Carisi carefully piped cream into cannoli shells, knowing that baking was Carisi’s default thing to do when he was stressed. “How are you doing?”

Carisi shrugged, and Barba leaned against the kitchen island, taking in the bruises that still darkened Carisi’s face, to say nothing of the ones he knew were hidden under the threadbare Harvard Law sweatshirt Carisi wore. “Today was an ok day,” Carisi said off-handedly.

“Did you have another nightmare last night?” Barba asked mildly, already knowing the answer.

He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since Carisi’s ordeal.

Neither had Carisi.

Carisi shrugged again. “Is it a nightmare if it’s true?” he asked, a little bitterly. He shook his head and sighed, setting the cannolo down and pressing his hands against the floured surface of the kitchen counter as if to stop them from shaking. “I just — I became a cop because I wanted to help people, you know?”

“I know,” Barba confirmed quietly.

“And now I’m worried that I’ve done more harm than good.”

Barba hesitated. “I didn’t want to bring this up yet, given everything, but—” He pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slid it across the counter to Carisi. “Bayard Ellis came to see me today. He asked after you. Wanted to see if you were ready to put that law degree to good use.”

Carisi face lit up for a moment as he picked the card up, though he hesitated and glanced at Barba. “You think I should go work for Project Innocence?” he asked.

“I think you should do whatever makes you happy,” Barba said firmly. “Whether that’s getting justice for the wrongly convicted through Project Innocence or another organization, or doing victim advocacy work, or staying right where you are as a cop.” Carisi nodded slowly and Barba hesitated before adding, “For what it’s worth, I think NYPD needs good cops now more than ever. The next Grantaire needs to know that there’s someone there who’ll believe him.”

“You believed him too,” Carisi pointed out.

Barba smiled, a bit too soft to be a smirk. “What can I say? We make a good team.”

“Damn right,” Carisi said, leaning over to kiss Barba lightly. “I saw Enjolras hijacked your press conference.”

Barba sighed and leaned forward to rest his head against Carisi’s shoulder. “I was tempted to rescind my offer of amnesty,” he muttered.

Carisi laughed lightly and kissed Barba’s temple. “Do you think Enjolras and Grantaire will be ok?”

“They have each other,” Barba said after a long moment. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, kissing him once more, a slow, sweet kiss that had Barba’s toes curling in his oxfords. “Sometimes it is.” He pointed towards the table. “Now sit down, I made zeppole.”

Barba laughed but obediently took a seat, reaching up to loosen his tie. “I love you,” he told Carisi.

“I love you, too,” Carisi returned without hesitation, setting a plate of zeppole on the table.

Barba picked a pastry up but didn’t take a bite. “Just remember that when I put half of your colleagues in jail,” he said with a sigh. He glanced up at Carisi. “This’ll probably mean more threats. Another protective detail. Our lives being hell in pursuit of something approximating justice.”

Carisi shrugged and sat down at the table as well. “I’m pretty sure we can get Les Amis to take care of that off the books,” he said casually, and Barba groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Please don’t make me put my own husband in jail for conspiracy and racketeering.”

Carisi just laughed. “Racketeering’s a stretch, Counselor,” he teased, though his expression softened when he looked at Barba. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

“Yeah,” Barba said, reaching out to grab Carisi’s hand and twisting it to he could press a kiss to Carisi’s knuckles. “We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks must, as always, go to AHumanFemale for beta-ing and cheerleading and taking a chance on this fic from the start even though she doesn't know anything about Les Mis.
> 
> A massive thanks as well to tobeconspicuous, who encouraged this madness from the very beginning, and who gets to tell me 'I told you so' into infinity after I hemmed and hawwed and argued that no one would ever read this thing.
> 
> And thanks also to all of you wonderful people, whether from the Les Mis fandom or the SVU fandom, who indulged my particular brand of crazy — I hope this ending is everything you lovely folks need and deserve <3


End file.
